Bloodsquib
by Vaysh11
Summary: Eleven years after the war, Harry shows up at Draco's home, asking him for help for his son James who suffers from a rare magical disease. He needs a blood donor to survive, and only Draco is a match.  H/D, slash


**Bloodsquib**

This is what Harry remembers.

The heat of Draco's skin as he moved against him. The overpowering smell of sex – sour, acidic, overripe and bright like the marigolds on the windowsill. So alive. Harry remembers how hard he came with Draco's fingers in his arse, rubbing off against him, his belly, his thighs. Underneath him Draco was writhing on the sheets, his cock slippery with spunk and sweat. Harry remembers Draco's needy growl vibrating against his skin. "Need to fuck you," Draco gritted out, voice dark and damp at Harry's ear.

Harry remembers thinking, _Please,__ please, __please, __fuck __me..._ He remembers collapsing onto Draco, full weight, all relaxed, all loose. He grabbed his arse cheeks and spread them wide, to be all open, all invitation for Draco to push into him. Draco shifted underneath, moving lower, gliding along their spunk-splattered bellies, and then his cock was moving up and down Harry's crack with jerky, impatient thrusts, and Harry pulled his arse cheeks even more apart. Draco pushed into him with an urgency that betrayed how much he needed this, even more than the obscenities he was hissing against Harry's throat.

There was Harry's spunk on Draco's prick, and that's all the lube they needed. Draco fucked him, with fast, shallow thrusts at first. His hands held on to Harry's hips, keeping their bodies close, skin to skin, barely breaking apart with the push and pull of sex. Draco drew his knees up, using his legs for leverage. And then he pushed in so deep Harry could feel Draco's balls press against his hole. Draco was shaking, he was that close. Harry waited another second; his tongue flickered one more time at Draco's ear, he whispered, _Want__ you __to__ come __in __me, __Draco..._

_Merlin, Potter, don't say such –_

_I want to be full of you, God, Draco, I want you inside me so badly..._

_Stop it, stop talking, Potter, you make me –_

_Come __inside __me, __Draco, __I __want__ you __to __fuck __me __so __hard __and__ come..._

Harry remembers Draco's groan, low and harsh, as if he was in pain. Harry clenched his insides, once, twice, and Draco lost it. He came, clinging to Harry's sweaty hips, moaning his name over and over... And such sweet agony, Harry remembers, like something was ripped open deep within him where Draco touched him, fucked him, where he loved him like never before. And Harry came again, spurting spunk all over, inside him and outside, his and Draco's. who loved him, who was with him. He would never let him go.

ooo

Draco remembers the light.

It was flooding in from the east through the windows that made up the entire front of Harry's bedroom. Outside, London awoke to the swifts' high-pitched screeches, the bright caws of the crows. The city's silhouette was drenched in gold.

Draco stood in the middle of the room, shirt open over his trousers. He held a Muggle cup in his hand, an odd-shaped thing, and the smell of coffee was everywhere. Harry was addicted to the acidic beverage, and Draco remembers longing for golden Assam that only the Malfoy house-elves manage to brew to perfection. But he'd grown to love the coffee smell, the cups, the teabags dipped in water heated by a quickly cast spell. He would have put up with a lot worse than coffee, for the joy of waking up beside Harry, hair a soft mess, his mouth sleepy and warm.

Harry came from the shower, naked but for a towel around his hips. His skin was warm and damp against Draco's chest. Harry was like a little boy sometimes when they were together, with no one else around. But Auror no less, for all his boisterous, boyish charms and the sheer power of his lanky moves. Draco remembers how Harry threw himself into his arms – without care for teacups and Draco's pressed shirts, stealing a kiss, stealing Draco's breath, his heart, and the golden light blazes through them. Draco remembers wondering how long it would be like this, both of them half hard and panting from a mere kiss. Few good things had lasted in his life. But this, _this_, Harry's kiss sharp like salt and rain in his mouth, this he would hold on to, this he would make last forever.

ooo

Neither can forget the sight of Lucius Malfoy.

Blood-splattered and a crazy shine in his eyes, he stumbled into the Black Library, soot from the fireplace streaking his face. His strangled words – _the __children, __Draco, __Mudblood__ brats, __all __of __them_ – are the reason why Harry can no longer trust Draco. Not when Draco left with his father without one word of explanation. Not when there had been seven Muggle-born children abducted from their homes and no trace, not one clue but the body of Sybil Montgomery, dead without a wound, killed by _Crucio_ alone, the pain unbearable for the tiny body of a girl who never knew she was a witch.

Robards was sleeping in the Auror Office back then, and Harry and Dean had been conducting interviews for weeks.

It was Harry's day off, a rare occasion during those terrible months when they tried frantically to find the abducted children before they, too, were killed. He and Draco were going to have breakfast, after a night of fucking, after weeks of only stolen kisses and secret handjobs in the Ministry. Harry loved Draco so much back then (_and__ he __still __does_). He needed to be with Draco. He needed Draco to fuck him long and leisurely so he could forget the crying parents, the endless briefings, the bloody useless Apparating around London (_the __dead __stare __of __Sybil __Montgomery's __blue __eyes_). Draco held him tight all night, and Harry felt right for the first time in weeks. They made love in the morning with the sun rising on their bed.

And then Lucius Malfoy appeared in Harry's home, uninvited and not caring one bit, using the Floo Harry had opened for _Draco_ Malfoy alone. And just like this Draco was the enemy again, the Mark on his arm unfaded, no longer a mere memory of sins past and forgiven but something poisonous like nothing had been in Harry's life since the end of the war.

In an instant, Draco and his father were gone, and so was eight-year old Tyler Stubbs, his name erased from the Hogwarts Registry. It could only mean one thing. Tyler was dead, like the Montgomery girl. But this time, the Aurors had lead. Somehow, somewhere, Lucius Malfoy was a part of the crime.

The Aurors raided the Manor but only found Draco, pale as death and tight-lipped, denying all accusations. His father was in France, he insisted, claiming Lucius Malfoy had been out of the country for months. Harry was taken off the case because Robards knew about them. But there was a reason why Harry kept the Invisibility Cloak. It took more than the Head Auror's command to keep him from Draco. When Draco gave his statement and blatantly lied, Harry slipped off the Invisibility Cloak. _You __know __I've __seen __him_, he screamed. _How __can __you __lie __for __him?_

And they were back in fifth year, only now they were grown men, the one a fully trained Auror, the other an expert in wordless magic. Afterwards, Draco's left arm was smashed; there was blood dripping from a deep gash above Harry's eye. Dean and Robards broke them apart and frogmarched Harry off the Manor grounds. It would be years before he touched Draco again.

He sat through hours of questioning, first with Robards, then Minister Shacklebolt joined them. The abductions were given top priority during that time. The _Prophet_ was having a field day with what happened at the Manor.

Robards asked, _Can__ you __repeat __what __Lucius __Malfoy__ said, __Potter?__ Was __he __wearing __dress __robes? __Or __a __blue __coat, __perhaps?_ (They found blue wool fibres at the place where Tyler Stubbs had been abducted.) _Where __did __the __blood __come __from? __Was __Lucius __wounded? __Was __there __a__ weapon __in __his __hand, __a __wand?_ Robards kept repeating the same questions over and over again. Standard Auror investigation technique, but it was grating horribly on Harry's nerves. And then Shacklebolt asked whether Harry think believe Draco was in league with his father?

Harry could only shrug; he was trying hard not to cry in the dimly-lit office in the Ministry. To this day he cannot forget the way Draco made love to him, and what if betrayal can feel like love, can feel like Draco's touch felt? The question keeps Harry up at night. And only in the darkness he remembers Lucius Malfoy's eyes that are so very much like Draco's.

ooo

Draco was never concerned much with his striking resemblance to his father. The light colouring runs in the family, and yes, he will admit that his eyes are all Malfoy, nothing like the Blacks' much bluer grey. But Draco knows craziness when he sees it. For an entire year he lived with it, the look in Aunt Bella's eyes, the feverish glances Alecto Carrow shot at him whenever they passed each other in the Hogwarts corridors. The fever shine spoke loudly to him, of a brain consumed by an obsession long gone out of hand. Pity, compassion, _love_ – Draco doubts those words ever meant something to the Carrows. For like knows like. Draco was raised to despise such sentiments. Only Harry taught him that they can be strengths, even for a Slytherin.

Now that crazy shine is in Father's eyes, too, and if that fever runs in the Malfoy side of the family as well, then Draco certainly will go mad before long. There's also drool on Father's shirt, and his body is taken by seizures. Out of compassion, Draco had pulled Father back into the fireplace that morning at Harry's place. Out of pity, he's hidden him since in the Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary, trusting the mindhealers' oath of confidentiality to not betray the whereabouts of their most prominent patient. For not even Lucius Malfoy deserves to be seen like this by a public that loves to gloat over every fallen sympathizer of the Dark Lord.

Of course, the Aurors didn't believe a word Draco said. Merlin, he would not have believed himself. And Robards is a Slytherin through and through. But Harry. Harry... who knew Draco like no other. At least that's what Draco thought. He still cannot believe he was so wrong.

At night, Draco touches his body, the ugly Mark, the scars from Harry's curses on his chest and arm – the one so long ago at Hogwarts, the other from their fight at the Manor. Draco touches his own skin like he used to touch Harry's. He feels like tossing off but he can't. A memory keeps turning in his mind, of Harry's face, twisted in disgust and hatred, familiar from years of enmity. That they loved each other those two short years after the war seems forgotten. Nothing has changed at all.

ooo

_February 2005, the Burrow_

Ginny listens hard. Wasn't there a knock? It's February, the middle of the night, and outside a storm has been howling for hours. When she opens the Burrow's door, she expects Mr Fawcett, stopping by on his way home from the Tumbling Weir Inn. It wouldn't be the first time the old geezer is waiting out a storm in their kitchen, a glass of Mum's apple brandy before him and a twinkle in his eye.

But it is Harry who stands before the door. He is wrapped in what looks like several thick robes. They are white with snow and dripping ice-water on the floor. His face is pale and covered with sweat and he's panting like he ran all the way from the garden gate.

"Ginny," he says, and she's worried instantly at both the sheer relief and the barely veiled pain in his voice.

Harry has changed so much since last summer, and it's not only the weight he's put on. Shortly before Christmas, he quit their Saturday Quidditch matches. At work, Dean says, Robards is trying to get Harry to have his health checked at St Mungo's. Something's amiss, something's not right; everybody can see that. They are all concerned, but Harry has become so withdrawn since the summer. He barely speaks, barely leaves that dark, damp house at Grimmauld Place. Dean says Harry's pushing himself hard at work, harder than ever, taking on the most dangerous cases, staying late in the office. Weekends, too. It is crazy, but Ginny doesn't know how to talk to Harry anymore, not since he got together with –

They all knew it would end badly. And it did. Ginny doesn't understand it, not even now, when Malfoy and Harry broke it off months ago, whatever it was they had together. She will never understand how Harry could trust the git, how he could let a Malfoy love him (if it was love, and she doubts that very much). Harry is a hard one to love; she should know because, Merlin, she tried. And she knows it's not only Harry's fault that things didn't work out between them. With Dean she can be who she wants to be – a young beautiful witch, setting out into a life that is theirs alone, waiting for them to discover. With Harry, she was always reminded of the shy, awkward girl she once had been. What they had was wrapped up in the past, in the war. And Ginny wants nothing more than to forget. All of that – Voldemort, death, fear.

And here is Harry again, a shadow of the boy she once was so in love with. She says, "What's the matter, Harry? Come in, come in. Merlin, you look a fright."

She draws him in and closes the door, to keep the storm outside. Harry just stands there, looking huge in his robes. She nods towards the kitchen and starts walking, but he stares at her, then reaches for her as if he's about to fall. And he bends over, just so, arms wrapped around his middle, and he whimpers, _whimpers_ in pain.

"Harry," Ginny whispers, and she wants to say _sweetheart_ like she does with Dean but she'd never say that to Harry. Instead she strokes his hair with trembling hands. "What is it, Harry? Are you going to be sick?"

He shakes his head, still hunched over and moaning now. There's sweat running down his face.

"Mum," Ginny says, "I'm getting Mum." She turns, but then Harry rights himself with visible effort. He looks around, there's panic in his eyes. What is with him? She has never seen Harry like this. Never.

"Need to..." he says, "I need to sit down. Please."

"Yes, sure, Harry. Come, come." Ginny takes his hand and pulls him closer, pulls him towards the living room. Harry's hand is cold and clammy; he holds on to her with a grip so tight it hurts. Slowly, awkwardly he walks with her to the living room. When he sits down, his head falls back and he closes his eyes, breathing hard.

"Harry," Ginny says, crouching before him. He's become so big. Harry used to be skinny, with every rib showing when he took his shirt off. Ginny hated the Muggles he'd grown up with, for not feeding him enough. Now he's put on so much weight she barely recognises his body anymore.

"Harry," she says again. "Do you want me to get Mum?" She doesn't know what else to say, so she puts her hands on his thighs. He's trembling. Heat is radiating off him, like she is sitting near a stove.

"Don't know." His voice is almost too soft to hear. Suddenly Ginny is terribly afraid that he will start to cry.

"What's wrong?" She is rubbing his thighs to calm him.

"Don't know," Harry says again and the words come out in a wheeze. "Hurts. So bad. And –" He stops, gasps, knots his hands again into the fabric of his robes that are tight across his belly. "Gin, please help me!"

He rips the robes open, at least partially with wild magic. He's wrapped in summer robes underneath the thick wool ones for winter. The Muggle clothes he's wearing are sweat-soaked, but he doesn't give her time to worry even more. His trousers are tied with a piece of string; there is no way the zip will close over how big he's become. Ginny cannot help but stare as Harry fumbles at the string and pushes trousers and pants out of the way. Every piece of clothing is drenched, and Ginny has the odd notion that it is more than sweat. She says, "Harry," and again, "Harry." She's seen him naked, before, of course. They've known each other since she was ten years old, and she's been skinny-dipping in the Otter river every summer.

Harry looks at her, face scrunched up in pain, and he takes her hand and puts it right between his thighs. His penis is shrivelled up, seeming to have almost retreated into his body. When her fingers touch it by accident, it's limp and hot. Ginny is at a loss about what he wants from her. He slides forward, he pushes his hips up, and then she sees it. There's an opening behind his balls, made of red folds of skin. It is deeper than Ginny cares to look. Harry's balls are tiny and hard. There are blood smears everywhere.

"Mum," she whispers, too shocked to keep the fear out of her voice. "I'm getting Mum."

"There's been... liquid... coming out," Harry says, and now he really is crying. "So much, Ginny. Do you think... " Tears drip from his cheeks on the wet robes. He is whispering so softly that she can barely hear what he says. "Did he do this to me? V-Voldemort? Is this Dark magic? Do you know? Do you?" He presses her hand against the open fold as if seeing is not enough, as if he needs her to touch it, to confirm that it is real. And it is real, warm and tight and wet and she can feel –

Harry screams, bends over and rolls up in a ball on the couch. Her hand is caught between his thighs that are clamping close, and she can feel his whole body cramping up.

"Mum!" she cries out and yanks her hand away. It is wet with sweat and water. Ginny screams louder, "Mum! Come down here. Hurry, Mum, hurry up!"

There's blood on Harry's lips where he's bitten himself to stop the screaming. Ginny strokes his back, she whispers silly things, whatever, just so Harry stops being in such pain. There are steps on the stairs, heavy and fast. Mum is coming down.

"Gin, what's the matter, girl? You're waking Vicky, and you know how she –"

This is when she sees Harry. He's panting so hard now Ginny thinks he's having trouble breathing.

"Help him, Mum," she says, drawing her wand and Vanishing away Harry's sweater and his shirt. He groans, hands pressed on his belly that looks awfully huge underneath his vest. But before she can help him, Ginny is yanked backwards so hard it hurts.

"Don't," Mum says fast and stern. Ginny's never heard her use that tone of voice before. "Do not use magic around him."

"What..." she starts, but already Mum's kneeling in front of Harry. She quickly pushes the robes and other garments away, then she helps him to stretch out on the couch.

"Get hot water," Mum says, tone matter-of-fact while she shoves pillows underneath Harry's head and his back. "And clean towels." When Ginny doesn't move, she turns, looks at her with cool eyes. "Now, Ginevra. Get them now."

Ginny stares another moment at Harry who must be bigger even than Slughorn, then she spins around and runs to the door.

"Breathe, Harry," she hears Mum say quietly, "keep breathing, in and out. Breathe, my boy."

Harry's voice, the sound of it more than the words, makes Ginny stop in the doorway.

"Mrs Weasley," Harry says, "please, what's happening to me? Tell me, Molly, please... Am I going to die now, Molly?" He is more than pleading; he is begging like a child, so she tells him everything will be all right. Ginny's never heard him speak to her like this, he never called her Molly, even when Mum's offered it a hundred times. To not betray his own mother, to not replace her by another one, Ginny thinks. That's why Harry never called Mum by her first name. But now he does, and he sounds so helpless that Ginny wants to cry. If this bloodless, red-eyed, vicious bastard of a monster did this to him, did this to her Harry, she will kill Voldemort all over again. She clenches her fists.

Mum pushes Harry's hair from his face. "Shh," she says, "no, you're not going to die, Harry. Quite the opposite, really." She laughs her cackling little laugh, like she sometimes does.

Ginny doesn't understand how she can laugh with Harry sick and in so much pain.

Then Mum takes Harry's hands in her hers and she says, slowly, making certain he understands every word, "You're pregnant, Harry. And the baby's coming now."

ooo

_Midsummer Day 2005, Church of St Mary Magdalene, Winterbourne Monkton_

Astoria walks down the aisle of the church all bedecked in white and blues. It's a gorgeous summer day, with beams of sunlight dancing on the multicoloured squares of the stone flooring. Draco is walking beside her, not too close, but also not too far from her. They have rehearsed every single step more than a dozen times, under the watchful eye of Narcissa Malfoy.

Draco looks handsome in his dark blue robes, with his light hair and the silver embroidery on the sleeves. He seems older than he is, more mature somehow. During the last two years at Hogwarts he had grown, a foot at least. Astoria barely remembers him from the war, only from before. Back when he was the prince of Slytherin House, a vibrant, fast-spoken slip of a boy, all pure-blood arrogance one moment, only to burst into a giggling fit the next. All the girls wanted him but as much as Astoria knows, only Pansy ever had him. And Harry Potter, of course, but that had been after the war, and so hush-hush Astoria didn't hear about it until Mr and Mrs Malfoy approached her parents with the marriage proposal.

After the priest says the words that declare them husband and wife Draco kisses her. It is their first kiss. Draco's lips are dry and cool, and when they move apart Astoria looks up to see how he is holding up. _Gay_, Mrs Malfoy had said, her only son was gay and looking for a pure-blood wife to bear his child. Astoria hadn't minded. Love was overrated, her mum said, and looking at Daphne, whose heart was broken every other month, Astoria thinks her mum has a point. Marrying Draco, Astoria will get to sleep with the Slytherin Prince, and even gay he is nice to look at, in a pointy, skinny way. More importantly, she will be part of the circles where the Malfoys move, even after the war. The pure-blood world couldn't care less about the accusations hurled against Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa and Draco still are welcomed everywhere that counts. And Astoria hasn't seen Lucius Malfoy until today. Dressed immaculately, bespoke robes cut in a French style that suits him well, he stands tall and sombre at Mrs Malfoy's side. He looks haggard as if he were ill; he hasn't said one word to her. Mrs Malfoy says her husband is in France most of the time.

Astoria takes Draco's hand as they step away from the altar and are led into the sacristy. A strange feeling comes over her, walking hand in hand with him. The diamond ring on her finger sparkles silver, with a touch of sapphire blue. On Draco's hand there is only the Malfoy signet ring. He has chosen not to wear a wedding band, like most men of the old pure-blood families. For a moment Astoria wonders what then binds Draco to her when there's not even a symbol on his hand, representing their bond. Then she realises that for Draco the Malfoy ring is as good as any wedding band – he's marrying her for his family's sake. It's a bond of blood and more enduring than whatever they will share. And she hopes they will share... something. Not the love that Daphne seeks – Astoria knows that much from Draco's demeanour, from their kiss that was nothing if not chaste. But she will sleep with this silent, brooding man tonight; they will have a child together; they will be together for years until the pre-arranged divorce. There must be something that he feels for her. What she feels, she realises now, is pity. She suddenly longs for the boy from their Hogwarts days, bright, arrogant, spiteful, so full of entitlement. Draco Malfoy then would not have once glanced her way. But even back then she knew they could be friends. Perhaps they still can.

It doesn't surprise her when Draco pulls his hand away the moment they enter the sacristy and are out of public view. It's just them now – the priest, her parents, the Malfoys, the families' respective lawyers, Draco and Astoria herself. There are thick sheets of parchment on the desk, a chiselled inkpot that doesn't belong in St. Mary Magdalene. Draco barely glances at the contract before he signs it with his name and the Malfoy seal. Then it's her turn, and Astoria steps close. _Draco__ C. __Malfoy_ it says in blue ink, the seal is red like blood.

Something new (a new pair of white lace knickers from Daphne)...

_Astoria__ Greengrass, __I __give __500,000 __Galleons __in __specie, __along__ with __other __good __and __valuable __consideration __(listed __in __detail __below), __as __a __sign __of __my __commitment__ to __support __you..._, she reads through tears that have sprung in her eyes out of nowhere.

Something blue (the silk forget-me-nots in her hair, matching the blue and white colour scheme of the wedding)...

_To __be __my __wife, __to __have __and __to __hold__ from__ this __day __forward; __until __the __birth __of __a __wizarding __son __of __Malfoy __blood; __to __be __parted __by __lawful __divorce __on __grounds __of __this __agreement __once __the __boy __enters __Hogwarts __School __of __Witchcraft __and__ Wizardry._ She loves this unborn boy already, calls him _Barney_ when she thinks of him, naming him instinctively after his grandfather and great-grandfather on the Greengrass side.

Something borrowed (her mother's pearls)...

_I __take __you, __Draco __Cygnus __Malfoy, __to __be __my __husband, __to __have __and__ to __hold __from__ this __day __forward; __to __allow __your __seed__ to __be __planted __within __my __body __by __magical __means; __to __carry __your __child, __as __many __times __as __is __needed__ to__ procure __a __wizarding __son __of __Malfoy __blood; __to__ raise..._ She cannot help the gasp rising from her lungs. No one told her that she will be impregnated by artificial insemination. She turns to her mum who shrugs, which only means she _knew_. Why didn't she tell her? Astoria has half a mind to not sign the bloody parchment. What do they think she is, a receptacle to deposit their precious Malfoy sperm? She never imagined that Draco would not want to touch her, ever. There's gay and there's _gay_, after all. And even if he cannot get it up for her, well, there are potions for that kind of thing.

Astoria looks at him, but his eyes are on her wedding bouquet. She's chosen bluish snapdragons and tiny white flowers of myrrh from a tree that Queen Victoria planted over a hundred years ago. Pure-blood tradition reaches deeper still, a thousand years back into Merlin's time and before, to an age when dragons ruled the world. Astoria looks at them, Father, her mum, Dr Killnick, the family lawyer she's known since she was a little girl. They all think this is right. Draco looks out of the small window, and she cannot help but notice how pale he is. It reassures her that he hates this, probably even more than she. He turns back to her slowly, and for a moment their eyes lock. _I __will __take __Graham__ Pritchard __as__ a__ lover_, she tells him in her mind, trying for Legilimency but she can't do it without her wand, _first__ thing __once __our __son __is __born._ It's a challenge and revenge even when he cannot possibly understand.

It doesn't matter. Draco turns away from her with a shrug. Astoria signs the contract without a second thought.

ooo

_July 31, 2006, Godric's Hollow_

It is Harry's twenty-sixth birthday. They had a small celebration, Ginny and Dean, Ron and Hermione. And James, of course, Harry's brilliant, his bright, his wondrous son. Watching the little boy make his rounds around the living room, Harry can hardly believe something so beautiful has come out of him. Male pregnancy is so rare not even the healers at St Mungo's knew about it. The last recorded case was in 1756, a girl born to two fishermen, living on the Out Skerries. Hermione researched the wizarding phenomenon up and down but even she could not explain why something like that would happen to Draco and Harry. For James is Draco's child. Harry only ever slept with him, never with anybody else, man or woman. And if that was not proof enough, there is the pale blond Malfoy hair, there is a certain sharpness of the bones already in Jamie's round baby face. Sometimes, when Harry watches his son he misses Draco so much it's like a knot stuck in his throat.

It is then that he takes out the old copy of the _Prophet_. _Malfoy-Greengrass__ Match __Made__ in __Heaven_, the headline reads. The article details in the _Prophet_'s lurid prose the wedding of Draco and the girl he married. The picture shows them kissing after the exchange of vows, and Harry's watched that kiss maybe a million times. He knows how Draco bows his head, he knows how their lips touch, he knows how the girl looks up at Draco after they move apart. It kills him, and it gives him hope. Harry barely admits to himself that he still hopes. But he knows that Draco does not love that girl, for he knows what it _feels_ to be kissed by Draco when he loves. And Harry still wants it, to be loved by Draco. To love him back. After all that happened, he still wants that.

He is happy, he tells himself, looking out towards the quaint houses of Godric's Hollow, hazy in the warm light of this summer afternoon. His friends have stuck with him through the worst – those nine months after Draco left him, when Harry lived in a cocoon of pain and a strangeness that he now knows was the pregnancy. Back then he didn't think, he didn't ask, he didn't wonder about what was happening to his body. Every day he thanks whatever deity is in charge of the unborn that his child is healthy and sane. For Harry didn't eat right, he rarely slept more than a few hours, more often than not he came to work smelling of sweat and unwashed clothed. Ron saved his arse more times than Harry cares to remember, shoving him into the showers of the Auror gym and bringing his own underwear for Harry to change into. It is a wonder, really, that Jamie is alive.

He will leave the bloody Prophet in its hiding place today. Today is for him and the new life he built for himself and his son. There's quiet laughter from Ginny's room down the hallway; Dean is staying for the night. Downstairs Hermione and Ron are finishing up the dishes. Harry grabs the bottle of Ogden's Finest that Robards has given him for his birthday. They will sit in the garden, they will build a fire, they will sip the whisky and reminiscence about the past. This is his family; this is his life. And it's a good one.

Outside, a gush of wind tears at the trees. An odd silence descends upon the house, as if the others left and now it's only Harry and... Jamie was playing in the kitchen when Harry went up to his room, with his three soft-leather juggling balls, two blue and one a bright yellow. Harry listens for a babbling chirp, a high joyful shriek. The house is never silent when Jamie is awake. The wind rattles at the window; the bottle in Harry's hand feels cold. He drops it as he rushes through the door, down the stairs.

Bursting into the kitchen, he screams, "James? Where is he?"

Hermione drops the plate she's been wiping dry, Ron stares at Harry, both hands in the dishwater.

"He's playing with his juggling balls," he says. "Merlin, Harry, get a grip on yourself. He's all right."

But he is not. Harry can feel it in his bones. He scans the kitchen, going into Auror mode. James is not here. There is fresh blood on the floor.

They find him in the living room, crying soundlessly. He cut himself with a shard of glass he must have found underneath the kitchen table. The shard shimmers green, and there's blood on it. The cut through Jamie's palm is deep, but it's nothing that a simple _Episkey_ cannot cure.

Harry takes him into his arms; he softly casts the spell. Nothing. Blood keeps gushing from the open wound. Hermione re-casts the spell, louder, with more force. Blood streams from the wound and won't stop. Ginny and Dean come running down. For the next ten minutes the five of them try every healing spell they know. Ron calls Molly, and she comes through the fireplace at once. Her spells don't stop the bleeding, either, and Harry feels Jamie tremble in his arms. There is so much blood – how can there be so much blood in such a small body?

It's Molly who finally tells them to take the boy to St Mungo's.

ooo

_Late October 2006, Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary, London_

The sunlight seems trapped in the puddle, shimmering like a red mirror on the marble tiles.

Draco read somewhere that it's an easy death, painless for the wizard or witch who can cast a simple pain-relieving spell. Dying like falling asleep. And it is true; he felt nothing when he slashed his wrists with the scalpel he nicked from the nurses' room. The silver blade cut right through the skull on his left arm. The Dark Lord's Mark is nothing but oddly crooked veins now, there's no magic flowing through it but Draco's own. He can feel it leaving him, magic replaced with a tiredness that is slowly seeping into his body. He leans back on the silk-covered couch and looks at the trees outside. They are still bright yellow and red, the last blast of colours before winter settles in. It's a good time to go.

Two floors below, Astoria gave birth to their child a couple of hours ago. A healthy boy with every limb accounted for, a nurse told him when he sat with Father. Child and mother are fine, she said. _Fine..._ He hadn't known how much this child meant to him, even less that he cared about its mother's well-being. But the relief sweeping through him at the nurse's words had been real. It makes it easier for him to leave.

Wanking here, in this very room in the Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary, had never felt real. Even now, when it's all done and over, he cannot help feel but deeply ashamed about the procedure. The magicked goblet made from ice, the gay magazines that Draco is certain Mother told the nurses to provide for him, Astoria's silence when she disappeared with the doctor behind closed doors.

It had taken more than half a year for her to conceive. He would sit here every month, flip through the magazines and settle on some black-haired bloke. He'd try to get it up without thinking of Harry. It never worked. His cock is fixated on Potter, perhaps it always had been. Scrawny, pale git whom nobody would think Head Auror material but for his magic. His half-arsed smile, his stupid, silly stubbornness. His gorgeous arse. Even now, as the blood drips from his wrists, Draco feels something stir in him, like want and hurt and need all mixed together.

He feels bad for his son who had not been conceived by love.

He feels bad for Astoria who wanted to name the child Barnabas, after her father. There was steel in Mother's voice when she told her daughter-in-law that no Malfoy would ever be saddled with such a common name. Scorpius Hyperion, they named his son.

Draco waited for the child to be born, to be sure it was boy. His duty is done now, the Malfoy line secured. He is not staying for the spare because he can't do it again. This is the last time he will be in this room, and this time, it's his blood spurting, not the loveless sperm he's wrung from his prick.

The few times he'd had sex during the last years, he'd been pissed out of his mind. He's made sure he remembers nothing of those encounters with strangers. Still, remembering Harry is worse, and those memories he can't bring himself to Obliviate. When he's maudlin like now, he thinks of Harry – a queer kid at Madam Malkin's, all green eyes and wild black hair. On a broom at Hogwarts, snatching the Snitch from him, the joy of victory so bright in his face. In the Manor, pulse wild and panicking, begging Draco from slits of eyes alone to not betray them. And Draco hadn't. Not after Harry had saved his life, not after Harry'd defeated the Dark Lord, not after they had kissed for the first time, years ago, under a moonless sky in Knockturn Alley.

Mother worries about him and rightly so. Draco's surprised she's not come yet to check on him. But she's just become a grandmother and she knows Scorpius is the only grandchild she will ever get. She even had Father brought from his room to hold the child. They will show the boy pictures, they will tell him lies about his father. Scorpius will never know that he was conceived from semen in a goblet, a healer's magic placing it in his mother's womb. He will never know his father was a coward and a poof. It doesn't matter, really...

Draco is thirsty, he licks his lips. They feel dry and hard. He is panting, it's stuffy in the room; a sweet, faintly metallic odour floats in the air. He wishes he could tell this little boy that he's the one thing his father did right. But maybe the boy will know anyway. Blood pumps slowly through Draco's veins, he can hear the sluggish rhythm of his heart. Cold is creeping up his legs, it feels as if there's water around him. He's chilly but not freezing. He'd be comfortable but for the pain blooming on his wrists now that his magic is weakening.

The wind rips leaves from the trees outside; yellow and bright red they are twirling through the air. They remind Draco of the shiny haws of the hedges at Malfoy Manor. He closes his eyes and gives in to his favourite fantasy...

He opens the heavy Manor door and there is Harry standing in front of him. His lips form his name – _Draco_ he says and smiles his half-arsed smile. Draco knows that everything will be all right. Harry reaches for him and grabs his wrist, the left one that is sticky with blood. _Don't..._ Draco tries to pull away but Harry's hold is too strong. He is warm and safe. _I__ won't __let __you __leave __again_, he whispers.

Heat rises. There's pressure in the air, like before a thunderstorm. Like within the split second before an Unforgivable hits home. But it's not an Unforgivable that Draco feels even when magic is thick around him. It's another spell, likely cast wandless, the way it sweeps through the room without focus. The voice of the caster is familiar. Draco has heard this voice all his life.

"_Episkey_," Father croaks, his voice a shadow of the smooth eloquence of the past. "_Episkey_," he repeats. He is holding both of Draco's wrists.

The soft touch of Lucius Malfoy's magic is not nearly strong enough to heal the deep cuts. But it brings Draco back into the room, back to the Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary. Father kneels before him. Bloodstains grace his blue dressing gown in a circular pattern, reminding Draco of peacock feathers' eyes.

Their gaze meets, and Father says, "Draco," moving his fingers hard across the cuts.

His touch burns like fire, and Draco hisses. He tries to pull away but Father won't let him go. For a sickly man who's spent the last two years locked into a room, he's surprisingly strong.

"Your mother," he says, pushing his thumbs deep into the cuts on Draco's wrists.

"No," Draco moans. He's writhing on the couch, trying to get away from Father's hold. He's not known until now just how crazy his father is. "Don't get Mother. Leave me alone."

Father gives his wrists one last sharp squeeze then he let's go of Draco's arms. Draco takes one, then another deep breathe. He cradles his forearms close to his chest. He's dizzy and so cold he's shivering. The room reeks of the sickly sweetness of blood.

Father walks slowly towards the door, impeccably dressed still with black socks and slippers made from shell cordovan. Draco sees their waxy shine from underneath the hem of the dressing gown. One hand on the doorknob, Lucius Malfoy turns.

"You're not slipping out of this one, Draco," he says and his voice is clearer than Draco's heard him speak in years. "Your son needs you. And you're not going to fail your family..." _Like__ me_, he doesn't say but it's all there in his quick, impervious shrug.

Later, Draco comes to in a clean white bed, bandages around his wrists and the peppery taste of Blood-Replenishing Potion on his tongue.

He feels a small bundle wiggle beside him, and when he turns his head he stares into the eyes of his son. They are grey like his own, with a blue tinge that must come from the Greengrass side. The baby looks back at him with a small knowing smile, he is reaching for Draco's chin and throat with his tiny hands. His son smells of honey and talcum, and Draco wonders what it means that the first things his son smells of _him_ are the mustardy taste of Shepherd's Purse and blood. When he sits up and takes the child into his arms, he cannot help but think of Harry's son, and how this is something they could have never had, not like this, flesh from their flesh, blood from their blood. It is a small comfort but Draco clings to it, like he clings to the tiny child in his arms.

Astoria sits beside his bed, still big and looking horribly worn out.

"When he enters Hogwarts," she says, "you're free of us and can do whatever you want. But not before. Not now."

The bitterness in the words makes her lips curl, and Draco hates it. His son's lips, he realises, are Astoria's, too, like the blue hue in his sparkling eyes. He remembers how pretty and lush they can be when Astoria laughs (they make him think of Harry's lips, Merlin help him).

"You signed a _bloody_ contract, Draco." The profanity sounds mangled from her mouth. Astoria never curses, and even now with her voice slurred from exhaustion, the words come across chilly rather than furious.

"I'll stay with you," he says quickly because it's suddenly important for him to make this promise, so different from the cold promise and kiss he gave Astoria at their wedding at St Mary Magdalene. "Until he's in Hogwarts and after the divorce. If you still want me to by then," he adds.

She nods slowly and considers him, then she moves awkwardly with her big belly to take the boy. Their hands touch when she lifts Scorpius from his arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I should never have – "

The baby twists abruptly in her hold. With a Seeker's reflex Draco reaches out to cup the back of his head that is threatening to snap backwards.

"I should never have married you," Astoria says but the way she looks at their son belies her words. She moves her hand over Draco's as she lifts the child to her breast, supporting his head. He lets his fingers slide down Scorpius' back and lower, until they come to lie on her extended belly. It's the most intimately he's ever touched her, and he moves his hand away quickly. Merlin, he feels like a heel and presses his bandaged arms against his chest. Astoria rolls her eyes at him but they twinkle as she places a kiss on the top of Scorpius's head.

Over at the door Father stands in his blood-spattered robes. His greyed hair is cropped short, there are deep lines etched in the skin around his mouth and eyes. Still – the old Malfoy pride is back. Draco can see it in the way Father holds himself upright when he opens the door for Astoria and the boy. _Scorpius_.

And then it's just Mother and him, and she gives him the scolding he's dreaded since he came around. Apparently there is no painless death, and it takes more courage (and deeper cuts) to end this life. When Mother's done, his face burns with shame and she finally leaves him be.

Outside, night falls across the trees. _Harry_, Draco thinks because he's so full of everything. _Harry, __I __have __a __son.__ He__ smells __of __honey, __I__ swear __he __does. __I__ wish __you __could __see __him. __I__ wish..._

He still wishes Harry were with him. But there's more in his life now than this useless longing. Draco closes his eyes, the afterimage of the trees outside still on his mind. The thought enters unbidden when he's already halfway wrapped in sleep: does Harry talk to the darkness, too, call it _Draco_ and tell it about his son?

ooo

_March 2009, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_

"Dad? Up?" asks James and already raises his small arms for Harry to lift him up. When Harry holds him close, he lets his head fall onto Harry's shoulder. The short walk from the iron gate of Malfoy Manor has worn him out.

Harry caresses the boy's head. The unfamiliar brown of his hair still startles him even when they had the Glamour cast hours ago. But Harry is so used to the pale blond of his son's hair. The Manor's heavy door is still closed. Draco is making them wait deliberately, Harry is sure of it, for of course Draco knows it's him, calling this rainy afternoon at the agreed-upon time. They exchanged two owls last week, one Harry asking whether Draco would see him, the other Draco agreeing with a curt _Yes_.

It is James's last chance. The healers at St Mungo's told them that the boy has a year to live, maybe less, if they cannot find a cure. He will bleed to death eventually, from any small injury, a scratch, a flea bite, anything. The galleons of Blood-Replenishing Potion they keep pouring into him cannot save his life forever. His magic is so faint that the healers declared him a Squib a year ago. Bloodsquib, they called him at St Mungo's. But Harry knows better, for he's seen James chase horses and riders around the room, and neither he nor Ginny nor Dean cast the spell to make the tiny Muggle figurines move.

"There's a snake in the door," James says.

Harry nods and wonders whether the brass beast will bloody open the door for him if he begs nicely in Parseltongue. "The people who live here like snakes."

James looks at him with big eyes, Glamoured blue to not betray the Malfoy grey. There's a rusty groan from the door and the snake slithers to the side. The heavy doors swing outward silently, and they are greeted by a house-elf, Hanny by name, if Harry remembers right.

The house-elf doesn't look at him; his bulging eyes are trained on James. House-elves love children, and they don't care whether they are Muggle, wizard or Squib.

"Master is awaiting you in the Green Salon," Hanny says.

The Green Salon leads out into the garden. It was Harry's favourite room in the Manor (besides Draco's bedroom and the kitchen, that is). They follow the elf through the maze of hallways. James stares open-mouthed at the ancient portraits, the polished marble floor, the flights of stairs, the gold everywhere.

"Do snake people live in palaces?" he asks, voice hushed with awe.

Before Harry can answer, a small boy careens around the corner. He comes to a full stop when he sees them, gapes and turns and flees. Scorpius. It has to be him. Draco is as protective of his son as is Harry of his; there's never been a picture of Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy in the _Prophet_. But the blond hair is a dead give-away.

The door to the Green Salon stands open, and with a stern nod Hanny gestures them in. Draco stands in the middle of the room, framed by the pearly light of the afternoon. Harry has forgotten how tall he is, how good he looks in his solicitor's robes. They've run into each other more during the last year, since Harry became Robard's second-in-command and Draco a partner at Killnick & Bodeon. But the Wizengamot and the Minister's Balls are nothing like seeing Draco in his home.

Harry still knows him well enough to notice the almost imperceptible twitch in his jaw. Draco's nervous, but he has no idea how Harry feels. He pulls James closer towards him, to not give away how much this meeting means to him. Draco may guess anyway. He was always good at reading Harry, and he hasn't taken his eyes of Harry since he entered the room.

"Potter," he says, with that mixture of disdain and doubt as if he can never be sure of Harry. And he is right, he can't be.

Harry is here not for Draco but for James. And Draco may fool others with his offhand ex-Death-Eater Slytherin advocate façade, but Harry knows him too well. He sees the hope in Draco's eyes. He takes a deep breath and steels himself, remembering Sybil Montgomery and Tyler Stubbs and the other six Muggle children. Their deaths are unresolved and unpunished, the cases wide open after five long years.

He would not be here if not for Molly and her strangely belated advice. The Purebloods' Curse, she called it. Her brother Gideon had suffered from it, too. Magical haemophilia, a rare magical disease, practically eradicated from the wizarding world in this day and age. The healers did their tests on James. They said it was worth a try. Every single one of their had cures failed, after all.

So they sit in the Green Salon with the light of the afternoon moving across the parquet flooring. Harry speaks while James is asleep in his lap. The Apparition and the short walk through the Manor exhausted him. Harry remembers standing at his bed in St Mungo's, unable to do anything but watch him bleed and bleed and bleed.

He feels Draco's gaze on him and looks up.

"I've heard of the Purebloods' Curse," Draco says slowly as if he's only now remembering. "Isn't there a cure? There must be."

And this is the crux of the matter, of course. Draco's eyes linger on James. Has he noticed the Glamour? Harry looks down at his son but the dark hair is still securely in place. Absently he wipes a bit of drool from James's half-open mouth.

"There is a ritual that requires repeated blood transfusions," he explains. They'd tried with his blood but it had not worked. "James needs the blood of someone whose ancestral magic has been exposed to the Curse. Someone with antibodies in their blood. There's a good chance that any member of the Black family does." And now Draco knows what he wants from him, what Harry needs from him for his child. Draco doesn't know it but he is the carrier of the disease; he has to be. Hermione could find no record of Purebloods' Curse amongst the Malfoy. The disease had to be transmitted through Narcissa, who is a Black, after all.

Draco stares at him, the emotions in his face unguarded for once. It would be funny to see him loose his composure like this if it weren't about James's life. "Any member of the Black family," he repeats, then shakes his head and starts to laugh. It's not malicious, but it's not friendly either. Rather, Harry thinks, Draco sounds desperate and a bit crazy, the way he laughs and laughs and doesn't seem to be able to stop laughing.

"I'm here to ask you if you're willing to do the ritual for my son and donate your blood." Harry's voice breaks on the words; he's doesn't know how he can fight for this. For he cannot fight Draco, he cannot argue and cajole and offer him everything he owns. Harry's seen Draco look at him over the years, at the Wizengamot, at the Minister's Ball; he knows that Draco still wants him. But that's the one thing that Harry cannot give. And so he can do nothing but ask, and then all is up to Draco.

The door opens, and finally Draco stops laughing. The little boy from before slips in, with a curious look on his face. He waits until Draco gestures him closer, then he runs towards him and leans against Draco's leg. It is an odd sight, and Harry is surprised by the fierce stab of jealousy cutting through him. He never actually imagined that Draco slept with his wife. But before his eyes stands living proof that their marriage has been consummated. There was a time when Harry was convinced that Draco was too gay to get it up for any girl. Not anymore, it seems.

"This is my son Scorpius, Potter," Draco says, a protective hand on the boy's back. "Scorpius, say hello to Auror Potter."

The boy glances up at Draco, a questioning look in his eyes. "_Harry_ Potter?" he asks, and it's clear from the awe in his voice that he has heard the tales of the Chosen One. Before Draco can answer the boy turns around, his eyes already searching Harry's forehead. The familiar recognition flits across his face, then he says, in very polite tones, "It's an honour meeting you, Mr Potter."

"Draco," Harry says. He's fallen into their familiar form of address but he finds he doesn't care. "Will you help –"

"Of course," Draco interrupts him sharply, and their eyes meet. A sad smile plays on his lips. "Of course I'll help you, Harry."

ooo

It's not the Glamour that makes Draco suspicious about who exactly is the mother of Harry's son. He noticed it quickly during their first meeting back in March – there's a give-away shimmer around the person when one knows where to look. Snape had been a very good teacher. Back in that fateful sixth year, noticing a Glamour had meant knowing whether friend or foe was in front of you.

Perhaps, Draco had thought at first, Harry had Glamoured the child because of some disfigurement. He assumed the boy was a Squib for he couldn't sense any magic from him. When Potter told him what was wrong with his son, the lack of magic made sense. Draco has spent the last weeks in the Manor's library, searching for anything pertaining to the Purebloods' Curse. Also known as the Blacks' Curse, as some refer to it. There is not much – it's been a shameful secret, kept hidden underneath a veil of silence for the longest of times. Minister Grogan Stump suffered from it, the elder Arcturus Black, Draco's two-times great-uncle. And the infamous Gideon of the Prewett brothers whom Father used to make fun of whenever Dolohov was around. Depletion of magic was part of the disease if not treated in time. Draco has almost forgotten the Glamour when he meets the boy for the second time.

It's a straightforward healing ritual, nothing like the arcane ceremonies that usually require human blood. Mother transformed one of the Manor's guest rooms into a make-shift ward, with basins to sterilise wands and phials and an assortment of potions at hand in case of an emergency. A healer from St Mungo's is present, a half-blood witch who looks too young to be any good, but Harry trusts her. There is a wide bed, there are blankets to keep the boy warm. Lovegood, who is still friends with Harry, attaches braids to the bedposts. She claims they are woven from the tail hair of Heliopaths. The other two thirds of the Golden Trio, Harry explains, are waiting for news in Godric's Hollow where Harry lives these days.

James's mother, Ginevra Weasley (Draco supposes she hasn't changed her last name, for there never was a marriage announcement), is conspicuously absent. Draco wonders whether she hasn't come because he and Harry had been lovers once. The Weasleys _know_, after all. He thinks it odd, heartless even, that she isn't part of this. Nobody could keep Astoria from Scorpius when he broke his arm, an injury the mediwitch at St Mungo's healed within short minutes. This ritual is much more complicated, more dangerous, too. Draco's read of cases when the child's body rejected the blood infusion. There is a chance that James may bleed to death, if Draco's not the donor they are looking for.

He glances over to the boy. James doesn't seem to be able to take his eyes off Mother. It pleases her, Draco can tell, from the way she adjusts the folds of her blue robes.

Then Harry looks at him and casts the spell that binds the child to Draco's magic for the duration of the ritual. It takes a second until Draco knows that the she-Weasel can never have been the mother of the child. The frayed strands of the boy's magic feel familiar in a way that blood feels familiar. It cannot be Harry's, for while the imprint of his magic is strong in the boy, he's not that closely related to Draco for it to feel so much like his own. They share an ancestor a couple of generations past, but this, _this_ feels like it could be his parents' magic. For a moment Draco actually considers whether Mother could have conceived this child, after a tryst with the Chosen One. He dismisses the thought immediately for the only other possible explanation.

Why Harry thought he'd be fooled, Draco will never understand. Magic sees through most lies, especially those that are not enforced by magic.

After two gills of his blood are transfused into the body of the boy, he gets up from the bed. Everybody is watching James, but Draco is watching Harry. He's watching his body like he hasn't allowed himself to watch Harry in the last five years. Harry is wearing Muggle clothes, jeans and a thick, long-sleeved sweater. It hangs loose on his wiry frame, but stretches tight on his shoulders. His neck is pale and smooth underneath the short black hair. The muscles of his thighs are clearly outlined underneath the washed-out blue of the jeans. Draco wants nothing more than to slip his hands underneath the ugly, brown sweater. He wants to feel for himself if Harry's body has changed. Harry's stomach has always been flat and muscled. Is there a small bump now, perhaps, that never flattened out? Does Harry have stretch marks, scars? Was the birth a Caesarean? Or was Harry's body altered inside to accommodate the child? Draco finds himself burning with a need to touch Harry all over, thighs, groin, belly, chest. He wants him close, he wants to feel Harry's skin underneath his fingertips. It's a strange mixture of lust and possessiveness that makes him hard like he hasn't been in years

He keeps himself back with an effort. Then Lovegood casually puts her arm around Harry's waist, and it kills Draco. He swallows a hiss and steps backwards, away from the bed, away from Harry.

James is fine. There are a few drops of blood on the sheet but there has been no unusual bleeding. The healer had to make a small cut to insert the wand holding Draco's blood, and she healed it with a simple _Episkey_. Excited voices fill the room, but Draco has a hard time making out what they are saying. He cannot stop watching Harry who now wraps his arm around Lovegood's shoulders and sags against her in relief. Something like bile rises in Draco and he digs his fingernails into his palm when he clenches his fists.

Perhaps Harry feels Draco's burning gaze, perhaps it's simply coincidence (as simple as any coincidence can ever be), but in this very moment Harry turns. His eyes find Draco, and he gives him his half-arsed smile. There is something about Harry looking at him like that – shy? Awkward? Draco cannot tell, but it's a private smile that has always been just for him. Harry detaches himself from Lovegood and comes towards him. Standing before him, Draco is struck with how small Harry is, almost a head smaller than Draco. And still his presence is more powerful now than five years ago. There is no way you'd miss Harry in a room full of people. Harry reaches for him, a soft touch at Draco's arm. Draco wants to pull him close but he stops himself. Not yet...

"It worked," Harry says, beaming with joy. "He's going to be all right." He steps closer, almost as if he means to kiss Draco but then he only squeezes his arm. _Thank __you_, the touch says without words.

"You knew it would work, didn't you?" Draco is startled by how cold his voice sounds, and he can tell Harry is taken aback.

"I was hoping it would. You're a Black –"

"No, I mean you _knew_ it would work." Draco retreats against the wall, away from Harry's touch. He searches his face. Is he really trying to keep up this charade? After Draco saved the life of his son (_of__ their __son_, he thinks, and it's the oddest thought).

"What? Draco..." Understanding flashes across Harry's face, his hold on Draco's arm grows painfully tight. "Let me explain –"

"Explain what, Potter?" Draco breaks away from Harry and pulls his wand. Three long strides, and he's at the bed. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Mother rush towards him; he hears the healer gasp in shocked surprise. There is no sound from Harry, and that settles it for Draco. He points the wand at James who looks up at him with trusting blue eyes.

"_Finite__ Incantatem!_" Draco says into the sudden quiet. The Glamour is gone in the blink of an eye. A boy sits on the bed. His hair is pale blond, his eyes a steely grey. There's a promise of sharpness hidden underneath the fullness of the little boy's face. His rounded chin is all Harry.

"James," Draco whispers. He's surprised that the name doesn't feel any different on his tongue, now that he knows it's his son's name.

Harry is standing beside him. Draco can feel warmth radiating off him, then Harry puts his hand on the small of Draco's back. He longs to lean into the touch but he doesn't. Not yet... He searches for Mother who's put one hand over her mouth. It's too ostentatious a gesture for Narcissa Malfoy. Draco hasn't been raised in a family of Slytherins to not realise that Mother must have known. He nods slightly at her, asking her without words to take care of the child. She inclines her head. _Certainly._

"Potter," Draco says without looking at Harry. He uses the last name deliberately, to bring some distance between him and Harry. Silly, stubborn, _impossible_ git. He feels Harry pull closer. "I've meant for you to meet someone for a very long time."

Draco's non-verbal command is enough to remove the Manor's protective wards. He takes Harry by his arm and Side-Alongs him right into Father's room at the Urquhart Rackharrow Infirmary.

ooo

Back outside of his father's room, Draco slams Harry hard against the wall. The expensive wainscoting rattles and for a moment, Harry can feel each single panel cut into his back. Then Draco pushes his leg between Harry's thighs, and his lips search for Harry's mouth, and he kisses him rough and full of need, like he was a drowning man, and Harry the only air left to breathe. His cock is hard and heavy against Harry's groin, and lust, bonfire bright, flashes through Harry. He's hot, he's brimming with desire, he's grappling to find purchase in Draco's robes, his hair, anything to bring him _closer_.

When they come up from the kiss, they're panting. Their bodies fall into a fast rhythm of thrusts – any more of this and Harry'll come, like a schoolboy, in his pants. He knows he's starving for sex, this is the first time he's been with anyone in years. Still he can't believe how good this feels. He is spreading his legs even wider, to give Draco access to every part of his body he wants to touch. Draco pushes his sweater up, he rips Harry's vest from the waistband of his jeans. With both of his hands he explores Harry's belly, chest and sides, he brushes hot palms across Harry's nipples, making them achingly hard in an instant.

Harry's head falls back against the wainscoting without any conscious thought. He's all Draco's now, his body yielding to his touch like it's always done, from that first stolen kiss in Knockturn to the last time they made love in the sun-flooded room up at Grimmauld Place. Draco unbuckles Harry's belt, he has his flies open in no time, and already he is shoving the jeans down further and further so he can reach Harry's arse and cup its naked roundness and squeeze it hard. Harry moans and wants nothing more than Draco touching him all over. He's been so empty all these years, so unsure what his body wanted after the unnatural pregnancy and birth. Then Draco slips his fingers into Harry's crack, and it's perfectly clear what he wants.

"Fuck me," he rasps. "Put your fingers into me. Please, Draco ... please."

His voice is thick with need and longing, and he feels Draco shiver at the sound of it. He complies without a moment's hesitation, no lube, no spit, but Harry's fully relaxed and wide open, there's no need for it. Draco pushes two fingers into him, he adds another two and he thrusts – once, twice, and Harry comes. So hard. So achingly sweet it's like sharp pain. He comes all over Draco in long heaving spurts. Draco's not even opened the lacings of his trousers yet, but he's rubbing himself wildly against Harry's spurting cock. Harry cannot remember seeing Draco so out of control and he tries to give him the resistance he seems to crave. Draco searches Harry's mouth again and kisses him, all teeth and tongue and sloppy wet need. Then his body stiffens, his back arches, he pulls Harry even closer towards him. Harry watches mesmerised as Draco comes with his eyes squeezed tight. His thin lips form a perfect pink O as he moans Harry's name, over and over again.

They are a sweaty mess with spunk all over their clothes. Draco slowly pulls his fingers out but his hands remain firmly on Harry's arse. It feels oddly possessive, the way Draco keeps him close.

He leans in against Harry and brings his mouth to Harry's ear. "I want another one," he whispers. "I want to fuck you until you're heavy with child. I want to be there when you give birth. This time I want to be part of it." Draco's voice is slurred; he sounds delirious. But when his fingers wander down Harry's crack they instinctively find the slit behind his balls. The skin there is tender and overly sensitive. Draco lightly presses in with his fingertips, and Harry moans at the sweet ache blooming red inside of him.

He says, "Maybe it won't work a second time," but deep down he knows it will.

ooo

Draco watches Harry all the time. He just cannot take his eyes off him. It's been six weeks since Harry and James moved into the Manor. He and Draco have since fucked numerous times, but they have yet to wake up in the same bed. It's his fault, Draco knows. He keeps pushing Harry away just to seek him out again for a quick fuck in the library or outside against the trees that stand in full bloom.

Harry says he understands and that trust cannot be forced but will come back in time. He knows the risk Draco took when he brought an Auror to the place where he kept Lucius Malfoy hidden all those years. It's taken forever to have Father's name cleared before the Wizengamot. And it proved to be impossible to keep the story out of the _Prophet_. They had bloody Rita Skeeter and her ilk practically camping in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor.

There are days when the crazy shine is strong in Father's eyes. He reminds Draco then of nobody as much as Aunt Bellatrix when she sat beside Voldemort, a sprinkling of fresh blood on her face from whomever the creepy snake had devoured for dinner that night. On other days, though, Father's eyes are clear, and often he will come out for a stroll in Rackharrow's park with Draco and the boys.

The case of the abduction and murders of the Muggle children has been re-opened after Father's testimony. It's not that Father's been very lucid, and Draco wonders what the Aurors could really make of his ramblings. But apparently there's a new lead that the Auror Office investigates. Harry's been working overtime on the case, and it shows in the black smudges below his eyes. Draco wants to kiss them away and tell Harry to quit the job and simply enjoy life. What with the combined fortunes in the Potter and the Malfoy vaults, it's not as if they need the money. But Harry, of course, will never leave the Aurors. After the last weeks Draco understands that there will always be a part of Harry that needs to save.

But there's another part of him that needs saving, and that is Draco's job.

He rises from the wing chair at the fireplace and walks over to the big desk where Harry is studying his files. Pieces of parchment with scribbled notes are strewn all over the polished tabletop.

"Bed?" Draco asks, and all of a sudden he's nervous that Harry may say No. It's the first time Draco is inviting him to spend the night together, to actually sleep in the same bed.

Harry's mouth twitches. When he looks up at Draco, his whole face shines with happiness. He pushes the file away without another glance; he stands and takes Draco's hand. His grip is strong, and Draco shivers in anticipation when Harry leans closer. The git even smirks at him, right before they kiss.

"I hope Hanny will bring me coffee in the morning," Harry whispers. And just like this, they are in the sun-drenched room again with the swifts screeching high above and Harry so alive in Draco's arms, tasting like salt and rain and the future wide before them.

oOo


End file.
